Man's Best Friend
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: Pizza Pie 'verse – 4-year old Sam, 8-year old Dean, Awesome Bobby, Daddy John...and a new addition to the family – It was Christmas, after all. And if now wasn't the time for puppies and surprises, then such a time didn't exist.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Pre-Series Fluff – 4-year old Sam, 8-year old Dean, Awesome Bobby, Daddy John...and a new addition to the family – It was Christmas, after all. And if now wasn't the time for puppies and surprises, then such a time didn't exist.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**Warnings**: None.

**A/N**: December has kicked my ass, and in an attempt to regain my feet, I decided to write a two-shot tag of sorts to _Pizza Pie (_though it's not necessary to read that story before this one). Updates (and completions) to ongoing stories will hopefully be coming in the new year.

* * *

_A dog may be man's best friend, but a child's best friend is a puppy. ~ Unknown_

* * *

Whether it was due to the honed skill of a hunter or to the instinct of a surrogate father, Bobby heard the Impala the second she turned off the highway onto the gravel path that led up to his house.

And just like that, Christmas Eve was instantly brighter at Singer Salvage.

Because holiday or not, Sam and Dean always had that effect on the place.

Bobby smiled at the thought; his calloused fingers lingering over the yellowing pages of handwritten Latin as he closed the book in his lap and set it aside before glancing at the other thing that had made things brighter over the past couple of days.

Oblivious to being watched, the new addition to Bobby's household playfully nudged a low-hanging ornament on the tree in the corner with his short snout and cocked his head in fascination as he watched the old faded glass orb sway from the branch.

Bobby chuckled from where he sat in his worn leather chair. "Hey. You break it, you buy it," he warned the dog, remembering his first Christmas with Karen and how she had been so excited when they had decorated their tree with ornaments she had found on sale.

"Can you believe it?" she had asked him, referring to the ornaments and to the deal she had gotten at the local store.

"Sure can't," Bobby had replied, not referring to the ornaments but to _her_; to the unbelievable wonder of how he had been lucky enough to have ended up with Karen as his wife.

Only now she was gone.

And a part of Bobby had left with her.

Bobby sighed, watching the ornament currently bobbing within inches of the dog's nose and remembering how the delicate glass ball had been among the boxed set Karen had always treasured because they had reminded her of her childhood.

Now Bobby treasured it because it reminded him of her.

"I miss you," Bobby whispered to the silence.

And nothing but silence answered.

Rumsfeld glanced at Bobby as the old hunter sighed and then glanced toward the kitchen at the backdoor; his short, triangle-shaped ears flopping as he tilted his head, listening intently.

Bobby's smile slowly returned, pleased that Rumsfeld seemed to already notice the sound of the approaching car even though the Impala was still closer to the highway than to the house.

"Here they come..." Bobby announced about the Winchesters finally arriving; more excited than he would admit that he was literally seconds away from seeing the two kids who made his life worth it, who helped him keep going instead of giving up and joining Karen on the other side.

The puppy wagged his tail and crossed to Bobby, blinking up at the bearded man he had lived with for the past two days.

Bobby chuckled. "You're cute," he admitted to the dog, leaning forward in his seat and lightly scratching behind Rumsfeld's ears. "But you're about to meet a kid who's gonna give you a run for your money."

Because maybe he was biased but Sam Winchester was the cutest kid Bobby had ever known.

Seven-week old Rumsfeld wagged his tail again, seemingly unworried about a four-year old kid being cuter than him, and then abruptly sat down on the worn rug stretched over the faded hardwood floor of Bobby's living room.

Bobby frowned as the dog rubbed his head against the corner of the ottoman, clearly wanting his newly added accessory _off_.

Bobby narrowed his eyes at Rumsfeld. "Hey. Cut it out," he admonished even as he wondered if the red bow around the puppy's neck was overkill.

It probably was.

He could see John's disapproving scowl and hear Dean's snarky comments about it even now.

But what the hell...

It was Christmas.

And if Bobby wanted to put a red bow around the neck of his new puppy, then he damn well was going to do it...and the older two Winchesters could get the hell over it.

It wasn't like this puppy – this _surprise_ – was meant for them anyway.

The only reaction Bobby was interested in was from a certain four-year old kid.

And that alone would make any amount of John and Dean's bitching worth it.

Bobby nodded in agreement with himself; his smile once again returning as he anticipated Sam's dimpled grin, wide eyes, and speechless stare when the four-year old came through the door and was greeted by roly-poly Rumsfeld decked out in a red bow that was the size of the puppy's head.

It was going to be awesome.

The kind of memory Bobby would treasure just like he treasured that old ornament and all of those memories of his sweet Karen.

Bobby's smile slipped at the thought of her – sometimes startled by how much he still missed her after all of these years – and sighed as he pushed himself to his feet; wincing as he stretched out his back and limbered up his creaky, aching knees by lifting one leg and then the other.

"Sucks getting old," he told the puppy watching him.

As expected, Rumsfeld wagged his tail in response, seeming to dismiss the complaint with the detached optimism of youth.

_Cheer up. It's not so bad._

Bobby snorted. "Well, we'll see about that when _you_ get old..." he grumbled to the dog before giving the decorated tree in the corner of his living room a final once-over and deciding it didn't look too bad for having just been set up barely an hour ago.

"If it wasn't for the last minute, you'd never get anything done," Karen used to tease him.

And like so many other things she had been right about, she was definitely right about that.

Bobby shook his head fondly and glanced again at that old ornament reflecting the colorful stringed lights wound around the tree.

Still seated on the rug, Rumsfeld lifted his hind leg and scratched at the red bow currently serving as his collar.

Bobby frowned and crisply snapped his fingers in nonverbal reprimand.

The puppy instantly stopped.

Bobby nodded his approval.

Rumsfeld wagged his tail.

Bobby rolled his eyes, refusing to be a pushover.

After all, it was bad enough that he was already a pushover with two kids.

He damn well wasn't going to let that happen with this puppy, too.

Not yet, anyway.

A man had to draw the line somewhere, lest he turn into one giant softie.

Bobby chuckled at the tough talk within, knowing it was already too late.

Because when it came to kids and dogs, Bobby was a walking marshmallow.

If only he had realized that – had _admitted_ that – before Karen had died, maybe he could have made her happier; could have given her what she had wanted.

Bobby sighed. "I'm sorry," he told her – as he often did, convinced Karen could still hear him – and then glanced at Rumsfeld still sitting on the rug. "Let's go, mutt..." he called over his shoulder as he headed to the kitchen to stir the soup that had been simmering all afternoon in preparation for dinner.

Four fat feet carrying an equally pudgy body trotted behind him down the hall, more than willing to go wherever Bobby led.

Bobby smiled, surprised by how much he already enjoyed having this dog around; by how much the puppy soothed his persistent sadness and eased the haunting loneliness that had filled the house for too many years.

Outside, the Impala crept closer to the house; her tires crunching the gravel in the driveway.

"'Bout damn time..." Bobby grumbled as he listened to the car's approach; always irritated by John's tendency to be late and to not even have the decency to call.

And at this hour, the boys had to be starving.

Hell, it was already closer to Sam's bedtime than his dinnertime.

Bobby glanced at the clock on the wall.

Scratch that.

It was almost 8:30, which meant it was _past_ Sam's bedtime.

And which also meant Dean would be pissed that the kid hadn't eaten yet.

Bobby quirked a smile as he remembered that evening a couple months ago when he had been on the receiving end of the eight-year old's wrath after he had been late in serving Sam dinner.

"It's past 5:30," Dean had coolly informed that night when he had returned to Bobby's house after going on an errand with John.

The big brother had then meaningfully glanced at what he had perceived as a starving little brother and then had pinned Bobby with a hard stare in silent disapproval of his earlier orders having been so blatantly disobeyed.

Bobby had nodded in reluctant agreement with that statement as he had remembered Dean's instructions about taking care of Sam in his absence – dinner at 5:30, bedtime at 7:30.

"Time got away from us," Bobby had offered in explanation.

Dean had arched an eyebrow at the pitiful excuse.

Bobby shook his head fondly at the memory as he stirred the soup and vaguely wondered if maybe the small family _had_ already eaten tonight.

Because it would be just like Dean to bitch about it until Sam was fed...and it would be just like John to forget that Bobby was making dinner and instead do what he usually did – feed his boys fast food from a drive-thru.

Bobby shook his head again, freshly irritated. "Damned idjit," he growled as he thought about all of the ways in which John Winchester pissed him off...and then felt his frustration disperse as reminded himself that his reward for tolerating John was being able to spend time with a certain pair of kids.

A sweet, floppy-haired four-year old and an eight-year old already mature beyond his years who didn't take crap from anybody.

"That's my boys," Bobby whispered affectionately at the descriptions that filtered through his mind and then smiled at the thought of Sam and Dean.

The puppy at his feet grunted.

Bobby glanced in the dog's direction as Rumsfeld plopped down on his plump bottom. "Are you listening?" he asked the puppy.

Because this was a sound Rumsfeld would hear for many years to come and needed to know who to associate with it.

"Listen..." Bobby ordered and nodded his approval as the puppy tilted his head obediently at the command; his ears twitching at the unmistakable rumble of a muscle car's engine as the vehicle entered the salvage yard.

Rumsfeld blinked up at the bearded man.

"That's them," Bobby informed the puppy, briefly leaning away from the stove to glance out the kitchen window above the sink; double-checking that the Impala was indeed the car that had just arrived outside of his house.

As expected, it was.

The classic Chevy's black body was a stark contrast to the thick white snow that blanketed the yard.

Bobby watched for a moment; his gaze tracking the snow that was still floating down from the cloudy evening sky and then focusing on John as the young father exited the driver's side of the car.

In the backseat, Bobby could see the outline of Dean...but not Sam.

The old hunter frowned at the sight, not surprised that the four-year old was not visible because the kid was probably curled up on the seat asleep.

But Dean didn't usually ride in the backseat anymore; the eight-year old proudly riding shotgun next to John instead as his dad's co-pilot and right-hand man.

But Dean was clearly in the backseat now.

Which meant...what?

Bobby shook his head, unsure of what that meant – if anything – and refocused on the pot now bubbling on the stove; having not spent all afternoon tending to the soup to have it scorch now.

Besides, the kids were probably fine.

Maybe a clingy Sam just wanted his big brother to ride with him in the backseat tonight.

And Dean had agreed.

And that was that.

"Everything's fine," Karen would often soothe him. "You just always assume the worst," she would gently scold and then would kiss him reassuringly.

Bobby missed that.

But if she had lived the life he had – if she had done the things he had done – she would have always assumed the worst, too.

Bobby sighed. "Everything's fine," he quietly told himself – because Karen wasn't there to remind him anymore – and then shrugged. "Hopefully..." he added, his doubt peeking through in his tone.

Because maybe it was ridiculous but something about Dean riding in the backseat of the Impala made Bobby uneasy about the condition of their youngest.

The old hunter sighed once more as he stirred the soup and glanced at the dog sitting patiently on the rug by the stove.

Rumsfeld wagged his tail, seeming to know the people the bearded man had been waiting for had finally arrived...especially the _kids_ he had been waiting for.

Bobby quirked a smile at his smart dog. "That's right," he praised Rumsfeld. "They're here," he confirmed and belatedly hoped this wasn't a mistake.

Because while Bobby knew Sam would be excited about the surprise of a puppy, he was unsure of the reaction from the other two Winchesters...both of whom neither liked surprises _nor_ dogs.

Not that Bobby really cared.

This puppy was for him and Sam...and Dean and John could just suck it up.

It was Christmas, after all.

And if now wasn't the time for puppies and surprises, then such a time didn't exist.

"Damn right," Bobby muttered in agreement with himself, turning off the heat on the stove and tapping the wooden spoon against the edge of the pot before propping it against the pot's handle. "C'mere..." he called to Rumsfeld and nodded his approval as the puppy instantly responded.

Outside, the Impala's backseat door creaked open.

Bobby resisted the urge to once again look out the window and instead reached for his dog. "Good boy," he praised the puppy's obedience, chuckling as he knelt beside the wiggling ball of black and tan fur. "Be still," he lightly scolded while readjusting the ridiculously large, bright red bow around the puppy's neck; wanting the moment of the big reveal to be perfect.

Sensing Bobby's anticipation of Sam and Dean entering the house, Rumsfeld continued to wiggle excitedly and jumped up to lick the bearded man's face.

Bobby dodged the slobbery tongue and pushed the puppy back. "No," he sharply corrected, understanding the dog's exuberance but knowing this was a habit he needed to break.

But Rumsfeld seemed undeterred, once again lunging to give a sloppy puppy kiss to the bearded man's cheek.

"No," Bobby repeated as he stood and shook his head at the dog staring up at him. "No jumping."

Unless, of course, Rumsfeld had a death wish.

Because the dog's life would certainly be shortened if he lunged like that at Sam when the kid came into the house.

Bobby inwardly shuddered at the thought, knowing neither John nor Dean would care if the puppy was only playing with their youngest but would immediately launch a counter attack against the perceived threat to Sam.

Bobby cringed at the unpleasant visual and then pointed a warning finger at the puppy blinking up at him. "No jumping," he reminded Rumsfeld as the Impala's trunk slammed shut.

Seconds later, boots stomped up the steps of the porch.

Both Bobby and Rumsfeld glanced at the kitchen's backdoor in anticipation.

John's footsteps were heavier and more solid as they led the way, followed by a lighter set that was most likely Dean's...but where was Sam?

Bobby frowned at the obvious absence of the four-year old's footsteps, feeling his earlier worry return, and then blinked as the Winchesters suddenly appeared in his doorway, giving him his answer.

Because there Sam was, bundled in a beige coat – the hood of his grey sweatshirt overlapping the coat's collar – and then wrapped in a familiar green blanket as he was held securely in John's arms.

"Is he okay?" Dean was asking about Sam as he entered the house behind John.

"He's fine," John assured, his tone tight and tired, and nodded at the open door.

Dean nodded as well and shouldered the door shut, blocking out the biting wind and blowing snow.

Bobby said nothing but noticed the exchanged glances between father and oldest son before he refocused on Sam.

The kid was trustingly limp in deep sleep as he rested in John's arms; his small chest pressed against his father's; the four-year old completely enveloped in John's protection and strength.

And in that moment, Bobby was reminded that maybe John wasn't that bad of a father after all.

The man certainly wasn't going to win any awards for his parenting skills, but no one who truly knew John Winchester could ever argue that the man didn't love his kids.

Bobby nodded once – the movement imperceptible – and continued to stare at Sam; the kid's pink-cheeked face burrowed into the warmth of John's neck; his beanie-covered head lolling on his dad's snow-dusted shoulder as he slept.

Bobby smiled softly at the sight but felt his frown return as he realized that John looked worried...and so did Dean as the eight-year old stood beside his father.

"What?" the older hunter asked cautiously; his gaze flickering between John and Dean before settling once again on Sam as the kid inhaled a noisy, congested breath and then coughed wetly into John's shoulder.

"Easy, Sammy..." John soothed, readjusting his hold on his youngest as Sam shifted restlessly against him in his sleep.

Like the kid often did when he was sick...

Bobby narrowed his eyes, suddenly realizing why Sam was bundled up...and why he was sleeping so soundly...and why his cheeks were pink – because the kid was sick and feverish.

Well, shit.

"Balls..." Bobby muttered at the realization and shook his head.

Because leave it to Sam to get sick at Christmas.

And while Bobby never wanted the kid to be sick at any time of the year, he especially didn't want Sam to be sick _now – _not _this _Christmas.

Bobby glanced over his shoulder at Rumsfeld; the puppy watching curiously from where he continued to sit unnoticed on the rug by the stove.

Sam coughed again, rubbing his face against John's shoulder as he sniffled miserably.

John rubbed his son's back in response.

Dean shook his head; his patience instantly gone. "Let me have him," he demanded, dropping the duffels he held – all three of them – and reaching up for his brother.

John cut his eyes at his oldest. "I've got him," he replied evenly, his tone and his expression implying they had already had this discussion more than once on their way across the yard from the Impala to Bobby's front door – Dean wanting to carry Sam...and John refusing.

Dean glared at his father, clearly unhappy at being denied his right to be sole caretaker of Sam, and settled for rubbing the kid's leg in silent comfort.

Sam instantly stilled beneath Dean's touch.

Dean smiled – pleased that his big brother superpowers still worked – and then glanced at John to make sure his father had noticed as well.

John sighed, beyond tired of this battle of wills with Dean that had lasted all day, and redirected his attention to Bobby. "Singer."

"Winchester," Bobby returned and then glanced at John's oldest. "Dean."

Dean nodded in acknowledgement to Bobby but didn't speak, too focused on his sick little brother to bother with pleasantries.

Bobby twitched a smile, proud that Dean always kept his priorities in line – Sam first, everybody else second.

There was a beat of silence.

"Sorry we're late," John offered, fatigue and worry making him uncharacteristically apologetic.

"S'alright," Bobby drawled, not really caring about that now.

"It's been one hell of a day," John continued, the confession an understatement, and once again shifted his four-year old in his arms.

Bobby nodded in understanding. "Just glad you're here," he replied genuinely and waved vaguely at the pot on the stovetop. "Soup's ready, if you're hungry..."

"We already ate," John informed and shrugged another apology at Bobby's scowl.

"Sam didn't," Dean corrected. "He was sleeping."

John didn't reply.

"He's been sleeping all day," Dean continued.

"Except when he's awake..." John added tiredly, his tone implying how much fun those wakeful times were.

Bobby chuckled softly – having been around a sick, clingy, cranky Sam before to feel a twinge of sympathy for John – and then nodded at the four-year old John held. "How bad?"

John shrugged again, feeling Sam's head lift with the motion of his shoulder. "He's okay. Just a cold."

"Or not," Dean countered sharply; his expression and tone implying this topic had been discussed numerous times as well.

Bobby arched an eyebrow.

"Colds don't have fevers," Dean elaborated and glared challengingly at John.

"Sometimes they do," John returned.

"Not like this," Dean replied and then glanced at Bobby. "Sammy started feeling bad yesterday, and then this morning he woke up with a fever that's been getting worse all day."

Bobby nodded at the information. "I've got some children's Tylenol – "

" – we've already got that," John interrupted defensively, once again shifting a sleeping Sam in his arms. "We've been dosing him since breakfast."

"Good," Bobby responded and then glanced at the fridge. "How 'bout we add some liquid antibiotics to the mix and get this kid well?"

"Yes," Dean heartily agreed, having known Bobby would have what they needed. "But I want to see it first."

John chuckled tiredly as Bobby nodded; both hunters knowing Sam would ingest nothing without Dean thoroughly examining it first and making sure it was safe.

Bobby glanced at John.

"You heard him..." John quipped and then smiled at his oldest as Dean stood by his elbow; his earlier annoyance replaced by pride that Dean was always so protective of his little brother. "After you finish, bring up the duffels and help me with Sammy."

"Yes, sir," Dean replied, clearly pleased that he was being allowed back on duty with his caretaking of Sam.

John winked at his oldest and nodded at their plan, rubbing Sam's back soothingly when the four-year old once again coughed into his shoulder.

Dean cringed at the croupy sound and gave his brother's leg a final comforting pat before he and John moved to sidestep Bobby; John headed upstairs with Sam, and Dean headed to the fridge to retrieve the medicine Bobby had mentioned.

But both Winchesters instantly halted at the sight that greeted them behind the older hunter.

In response to finally being noticed by the long-awaited guests, Rumsfeld stood; wagging his tail in polite greeting as he moved from the rug by the stove to the center of the kitchen and blinked at John, then at Dean.

* * *

_**TBC**_


	2. Chapter 2

There was a beat of silence; Rumsfeld staring at the Winchesters...and the Winchesters staring right back.

"What the hell is that?" John finally asked, cutting his eyes at Bobby.

"A puppy," Bobby answered dryly, reaching down to straighten the bow around Rumsfeld's neck.

John glared at the smartass answer and tone. "I can see that," he snapped, lowering his voice when Sam stirred in his arms. "What the hell is it doing here?" he demanded more quietly.

"It lives here," Bobby replied and then glanced at Dean. "Santa came early."

Dean snorted at the explanation; his expression implying that he had more important things to worry about right now than Santa's comings and goings – like a sick little brother who needed tending to – and was offended that Bobby expected him to believe such nonsense anyway.

Bobby sighed, receiving Dean's message and saddened that the magic of Christmas was already gone for the eight-year old scowling up at him.

John shifted where he stood, readjusting his hold on Sam and lifting the kid marginally higher as Rumsfeld approached.

Bobby chuckled at John's reaction to the seven-week old puppy. "He's not dangerous."

"How do you know?" Dean countered, eyeing the dog like he was ready to splash holy water in its face.

Bobby arched an eyebrow at the challenge. "Because I do." He paused, watching John's oldest watch Rumsfeld. "He's not dangerous," he repeated at Dean's maintained suspicion.

Dean shook his head at Bobby's naiveté. "Everything's dangerous."

John nodded his agreement.

Bobby sighed, feeling something in his chest twist at Dean's matter-of-fact statement; the eight-year old clearly believing that more than anything else.

_Everything's dangerous. _

"Not everything," Karen would have corrected with the gentle patience of the mother she had never gotten to be and would have made Dean believe that instead.

Bobby knew because there was a time when she had made _him_ believe that; a time when everything wasn't dangerous.

But that time wasn't now.

Now was the time of hunters expecting the worse and raising their children to do the same.

Not that Bobby could blame John for doing so, but still...

It was heart-achingly sad that something as exciting as a surprise puppy on Christmas Eve would be met with anything besides happiness.

But neither John nor Dean were happy to meet Rumsfeld, and the one person in the room who could sway them was currently sick and asleep.

Bobby sighed his disappointment.

John sighed as well but for a different reason, not in the mood to deal with Bobby's whim. "Well, whatever..." he dismissed, barely glancing at the puppy as he walked past it. "We'll be upstairs," he called over his shoulder to Dean, carrying his youngest toward the hallway; obviously too tired from driving all day and worrying about his sick kid to offer any other reaction to the new addition to Bobby's household.

There was another beat of silence as Bobby and Dean listened to John climb the steps and head toward the room the brothers shared upstairs; the floorboards creaking above as John walked.

Bobby sighed, redirecting his attention to Dean.

The eight-year old glared at the dog and then at Bobby. "I can't believe you did this."

Bobby arched an eyebrow at the accusatory tone. "Believe it," he responded flatly. "Besides, the dog ain't for you or your daddy. It's for me and Sam."

Dean shook his head. "Sam can't have a dog."

"True," Bobby agreed, well aware of the reasons why pet ownership was not an option for the Winchesters. "But the kid can sure as hell share mine."

Dean didn't respond, seeming to soften at Bobby's declaration.

There was silence; the ceiling once again creaking as John moved around in the bedroom upstairs.

Dean glanced at the puppy still standing in the middle of the kitchen and still staring at him. "Is it a skinwalker?"

Bobby blinked at the question and then laughed.

Dean's glare returned. "Is it?" he demanded.

Bobby shook his head. "No," he assured, once again saddened that an eight-year old didn't believe in Santa but _did_ believe in skinwalkers.

"How do you know?" Dean pressed. "Did you test it?"

Bobby nodded, biting back a comment about how he didn't become a hunter just yesterday. "Of course I tested it," he replied, reminding himself that Dean was only asking such questions because the big brother was worried about his little brother's safety.

That's all the kid ever worried about.

And Bobby couldn't fault Dean for that.

Dean's gaze flickered to the dog and then back to Bobby. "Rottweilers are dangerous."

Bobby scowled at the generalization. "All dogs are dangerous if they're not raised and trained properly," he corrected. "But Rumsfeld's gonna be just fine. The only folks who gotta worry about him being a danger is folks who don't belong around here anyway."

Dean nodded thoughtfully at the explanation. "So, he's a guard dog?"

"Exactly," Bobby confirmed, sensing the change in Dean's opinion of the puppy staring at them. "And once Rumsfeld meets Sam, I bet those two will be inseparable."

Which meant even more protection for Sam...

Dean nodded again at the implication. "Well...okay..." he hesitantly agreed. "But if he scares Sam...or if he _hurts_ Sam..."

"He won't," Bobby assured. "And if he does, then _I'll _take care of him," he added, glancing meaningfully at the puppy.

Rumsfeld seemed to receive the message as he whined and ducked his head.

Dean nodded once more and then sighed. "Okay. I guess he can stay."

Bobby quirked a smile at being granted such permission in his own house.

Dean lifted the three duffels from the floor with a grunt and then motioned toward the fridge. "How 'bout those antibiotics?"

Bobby nodded. "Right this way..." he replied and crossed to the fridge; knowing Dean followed him and noticing the kid patting the dog's head as he passed by.

Bobby smiled to himself as he opened the fridge, confident Rumsfeld and Dean would become partners in looking out for Sam, and made sure his expression was neutral when he turned back to face John's oldest.

Dean accepted the chilled plastic bottle of pink medicine. "Amoxicillin," he identified without reading the label and nodded his approval. "Sam likes this," he announced, clearly relieved that he wouldn't have to fight the battle of getting his kid brother to actually take the medicine. "And he's not allergic to it, so that's good."

"Good," Bobby agreed, even though he already knew those facts.

That was why he always made sure to keep this particular antibiotic stocked.

There was silence as Dean skimmed the label, refreshing himself on dosing instructions.

Bobby quirked a smile at the big brother's careful attention to detail when it came to Sam and reached into the fridge for a bottle of water. "Here..."

Dean glanced up. "Thanks," he responded, taking the offered water and then narrowing his eyes as a particularly harsh cough echoed overhead.

Bobby cringed, hating that such a horrible sound came from such a small child. "I don't like the sound of that."

"Me, neither," Dean agreed and stomped toward the hall – a man on a mission – just as John called his name.

Bobby chuckled at the desperation in John's tone; the father clearly in unfamiliar territory as he tried to take care of Sam by himself upstairs.

"Dean..." John called again and was echoed by Sam's hoarse voice also calling for his brother.

"Coming..." Dean responded and disappeared in the hall, managing to take the steps two at a time despite having his hands full with three duffels, the antibiotics, and the bottle of water.

Bobby listened to the eight-year old climb the stairs and then glanced at Rumsfeld. "He's a good kid," he assured the puppy about Dean, having no doubt that as soon as Dean saw how much Sam loved the dog, the big brother would come around. "It just takes a little longer with him," he confided, remembering all too well how long it took Dean to trust him after they had first met.

Upstairs, Sam coughed once more – the sound loud, deep, and wet – and then whimpered Dean's name; the four-year old always seeking comfort and reassurance from his brother, especially when he was sick.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean replied, and Bobby heard the solid thump of Dean dropping the duffels on the bedroom floor upstairs.

Bobby smiled as he pictured Dean then crossing to the bed and wasting no time in pushing John out of his way as he prepared to tend to Sam; helping the kid change into his nightclothes and dosing him with the antibiotics while John hovered, not quite sure what to do.

Bobby shook his head. "Poor bastard," he commented about John and chuckled to himself; always amused at how Dean could put John in his place when it came to Sam...and how more times than not, John let him.

Rumsfeld stared up at the ceiling; his head tilting and his ears twitching as he listened to the muffled conversation upstairs between father and oldest son with Sam's coughs interspersed.

"It's not polite to eavesdrop," Bobby advised the puppy good-naturedly – even though he was doing the same – and patted the dog's head as he crossed back to the stove. "Guess we'll eat this for lunch tomorrow," he commented to the dog, removing the pot of soup from the heated front eye and pushing it further back on the stovetop to cool.

Rumsfeld wagged his tail in agreement and then perked up his ears as heavy footsteps came down the stairs.

Bobby turned and leaned against the counter, knowing he would see John even before the oldest Winchester appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

John stood there, having removed his coat and outer flannel shirt; undoubtedly hot from having held a fevered kid so closely for so long earlier.

Bobby waited, watching as the young father held the bottle of pink medicine in one hand while rubbing his neck with the other. "Did Sam take it?" he asked, motioning toward the antibiotic.

John nodded. "Yeah." He paused, quirking a smile at the memory of Dean practically pouring the liquid into the four-year old's mouth just seconds ago. "Not that Sam had much choice."

Bobby smiled as well, though he sensed John had come downstairs for a reason other than just returning the antibiotic to the fridge.

There was a beat of silence.

Rumsfeld's gaze flickered between both bearded men as he continued to stand in the center of the kitchen.

John sighed. "Humidifier?" he finally requested, like he was embarrassed by having to ask for something he clearly didn't think was necessary – and didn't expect Bobby to have – but asked anyway because Dean had insisted.

Bobby frowned. "Is Sam that bad?"

John shook his head. "I don't think so. But Dean..."

His voice trailed off in a shrug.

Bobby nodded his understanding, having been on the receiving end of Dean's demands when the eight-year old was in mother hen mode. The humidifier probably not truly needed but seeming like a good idea to a big brother who just wanted his little brother well.

John sighed once more. "I told Dean you probably didn't have one, but – "

" – of course I do," Bobby interrupted, slightly offended at the implication that he wouldn't have everything his boys would potentially need.

John arched an eyebrow.

Bobby shrugged. "Got it on sale at Walmart," he commented and then nodded toward the bathroom down the hall. "It's under the sink."

John glanced over his shoulder and then back at Bobby, shaking his head.

Bobby shrugged again and then turned his attention back to the soup, twisting the pot to sit more securely on the back portion of the stove. "You sure you don't want any of this?"

"I'm sure," John replied and crossed to the fridge, exchanging the medicine he held for medicine of his own – a cold beer.

Bobby watched as John twisted off the bottle's cap and swigged the amber-color liquid; briefly closing in eyes and sighing.

There was more silence as John opened his eyes and stared at the dog staring at him.

"Seriously, Singer..." John began, motioning toward the puppy with the beer bottle he held. "What the hell is this?"

Bobby glanced at his dog and then back at John. "I don't think I understand the question," he replied.

John glared.

Bobby rolled his eyes at what he perceived as complete overreaction. "It's just a dog, John."

"No shit," John snapped irritably. "But why get one now? And why not mention it to me first?"

"Because I don't need your permission," Bobby heatedly returned. "It's my house. And if I want a dog around the place, then I'll damn well have one."

John said nothing, sighing harshly before drinking from his beer.

Rumsfeld continued to glance between the bearded men.

"Fine," John finally allowed. "It is _your_ house. But if this dog hurts one of _my _kids – "

" – please," Bobby scoffed, wondering if John was even listening to himself. "Rumsfeld is gonna be one of the best things that ever happened to those kids."

"Rumsfeld?" John echoed and then pulled a face. "What the hell kind of name is that for a dog?"

"Never mind," Bobby dismissed, not interested in explaining himself to John Winchester. "The point is, this dog is gonna grow up loving and protecting those kids as much as we do."

The statement was honest and heart-felt and caught John off guard; having known that Bobby loved Sam and Dean as his own but not expecting the older hunter to be so candid about it just now.

There was a beat of silence.

John sighed evenly and drank again from his beer, glancing once more at the puppy still staring at him.

A weak cough drifted down the stairs.

John glanced up, frowning as the sound came again.

"Dad..." Dean called, his impatient tone implying he was still waiting for that humidifier.

John shook his head.

Bobby chuckled. "You better move your ass."

John snorted. "Guess so," he agreed, not interested in dealing with Dean's attitude if he continued to delay delivering what the eight-year old had requested in the name of getting Sam well.

Bobby chuckled once more. "If you need backup, just holler."

"Thanks," John replied dryly and swigged from his beer; tossing the bottle cap into the trash and rubbing Rumsfeld's head as he passed the dog on his way to the hall.

Bobby pretended not to notice even as he inwardly smiled.

"I'll be back down later," John informed over his shoulder. "I think I've got a lead on a hunt and – "

" – no," Bobby interrupted and shook his head.

John frowned. "What?"

"No," Bobby repeated. "We're not discussing hunts tonight."

John's frown deepened. "Why not?"

"Because it's Christmas Eve," Bobby replied as if the answer was obvious.

"So...?" John pressed, confused as to why that mattered.

"So, I don't work on Christmas Eve," Bobby announced. "Or on Christmas Day."

John scowled at the new development. "Since when?"

"Since now."

John sighed. "Bobby. People are – "

" – dying," Bobby finished, having heard John's favorite argument before, and then nodded. "I know," he agreed, pausing as he glanced up at the ceiling where two kids waited upstairs. "But people are also _living_, John," he reminded the young father.

Because while Bobby agreed that it was important to save people by hunting things, it was also important to appreciate what was right here, right now.

Losing Karen had taught him that.

And tonight – as well as tomorrow – Bobby intended to enjoy the two kids he loved and to appreciate the precious time he got to spend with them...especially at Christmas.

The hunt could wait.

There was silence.

"Dad..." Dean called, his tone suggesting he was seconds away from coming downstairs to retrieve the damn humidifier himself.

John glanced up the stairs, quirking a smile at his persistent, stubborn eight-year old. "I'm coming, Dean," he called back, seeming to understand what Bobby was implying earlier about taking a break from saving the dying to enjoy the living.

It was a narrow line to walk.

But John refused to feel guilty about it tonight.

After all, he had a sick kid to help tend to.

John nodded in agreement with himself and took another swing from the beer bottle he continued to hold. "See you in the morning," he told Bobby over his shoulder and disappeared down the hall.

Bobby nodded, listening to John rummage around under the sink in the spare bathroom and then watching as the younger hunter passed back by the kitchen's doorway, headed upstairs with the humidifier.

Bobby sighed. "Well..." he drawled, glancing at Rumsfeld as the puppy blinked up at him. "Guess it's just you and me again tonight," he commented to the dog, disappointed by how the evening had turned out.

Rumsfeld licked Bobby's hand in response as the old hunter reached down to scratch the puppy's ears.

"Good boy," Bobby praised, briefly considering removing the red bow from the dog's neck...but deciding against it because he liked the festive accessory. "Don't judge me," he admonished the puppy and then chuckled to himself as Rumsfeld wagged his tail.

Bobby sighed, grabbing a beer from the fridge before switching off the kitchen light and crossing to the living room to once again settle in his worn leather chair to finish reading his book from earlier.

Rumsfeld happily followed, his fat feet plodding down the hall.

Bobby smiled at the sound and paused by the stairs, listening to Dean murmur soothingly to Sam and to John commenting that he was going to take a shower.

"Okay," Dean replied distractedly just as Sam coughed.

Bobby cringed, wishing he could take the sickness from the kid, and continued to the living room; easing down into the familiar warmth of his chair before bending to take off his boots; hearing the shower turn on overhead as Rumsfeld plopped down at his sock-clad feet.

Seconds later, the puppy was asleep.

Bobby chuckled at the soft snores and gently nudged the dog's furry side with his foot.

Rumsfeld snorted adorably and then shifted on the floor, falling silent.

Bobby quirked a smile.

Several minutes passed before the shower turned off and then several minutes after that, the bathroom door creaked open as John crossed back to his boys' bedroom.

"Everything okay?" Bobby heard John ask quietly and assumed that meant Sam had finally fallen back asleep, especially since he hadn't heard the four-year old cough recently.

"Yeah," Dean responded, and Bobby could picture the eight-year old ignoring his own bed across the room and instead tucking himself in beside Sam, determined to stand guard over his sick little brother throughout the night.

"Good," John replied, knowing Sam was in good hands. "Call me if you need me."

"Yes, sir," Dean returned and nothing else was said as the Winchesters settled in for the night in their respective bedrooms upstairs.

Bobby sighed, wishing they were settled in _downstairs_ with him; the boys watching a Christmas movie while Sam played with Rumsfeld...and John did whatever as long as he stayed quiet and didn't spoil the moment.

"Ah, if wishes were horses..." Karen would often muse whenever Bobby would wax poetic about his many wishes and would wink at him whenever he playfully glared back in response.

_If wishes were horses..._

"...then beggars would ride," Bobby finished quietly and glanced at the old ornament still faithfully hanging on the tree in the corner; the stringed lights bathing the room in a warm, soothing glow.

Rumsfeld whimpered in his sleep and then settled once again.

No sound came from upstairs.

Bobby sighed, shaking off the vague melancholy feeling that washed over him and reminding himself that there was always tomorrow; that maybe tomorrow Sam would feel better and would finally meet Rumsfeld and give Bobby the reaction he had anticipated and felt strangely robbed of tonight.

Bobby nodded, feeling slightly encouraged, and refocused on the book in his lap.

A couple of hours passed before Bobby heard movement upstairs; light footsteps attempting to be quiet as they exited the boys' bedroom and crossed to the bathroom down the hall.

"Dean," Bobby identified and then frowned when he heard another pair of footsteps – lighter and softer because the body was smaller – also exiting the bedroom seconds later...which could only belong to Sam.

Bobby listened as the footsteps crept down the stairs and cut his eyes as Rumsfeld as the puppy unexpectedly growled, suddenly awake and on alert at the sound of movement in the house.

"Hush," Bobby reprimanded and nudged the puppy with his foot.

Rumsfeld obeyed but twitched his ears as he continued to stare expectantly at the doorway.

Seconds later, Sam appeared.

Bobby smiled at the small floppy-haired kid standing there in blue sweatpants and a grey long-sleeved shirt – both of which were too big for him.

Sam blinked drowsily, having obviously just woken up.

"Hey, squirt..." Bobby greeted warmly. "How did you escape?"

Sam smiled tiredly at the joke, knowing Bobby was referring to the hawk-like watch Dean often kept on him, especially when he was sick. "I'm sneaky," he replied, his voice quiet and hoarse.

Bobby chuckled. "That you are," he agreed and then motioned for the four-year old to join him. "C'mere..." he called, setting aside the book he had been reading for most of the evening to make room in his lap for more important things. "I've got something to show you. Someone I want you to meet."

Bobby glanced down at Rumsfeld still lying under his feet; the puppy's pudgy black and tan body hidden behind the ottoman that sat in front of the leather chair.

"C'mere..." Bobby called again, frowning at Sam's slow response time and taking that as further evidence of how tired and crappy the kid felt.

Sam smiled at the repeated invitation; his sock-clad feet barely making a sound as he crossed the living room.

Bobby watched him approach and then held his breath as the four-year old paused beside the ottoman.

Sam wrinkled his forehead in confusion at what he saw; his gaze flickering from the puppy staring at him to Bobby, who was also staring at him.

"Is that your puppy?" Sam finally asked.

"It's _our_ puppy," Bobby corrected and winked at Sam as the kid blinked in surprise. "Santa came early."

Sam frowned at the explanation and shook his head. "Dean says Santa's not real."

Bobby shrugged, slightly annoyed that Dean would tell that to his four-year old brother. "Well, whether he is or he ain't..." the old hunter allowed. "It looks like you and me got ourselves a dog."

Sam smiled, glancing again at the puppy. "Really?" he whispered, unable to believe it.

"Really," Bobby confirmed and felt like his face would crack from how widely he was smiling.

Sam sniffled and blinked once more. "Wow," he breathed; his eyes wide as he stared at Rumsfeld in speechless awe.

As if sensing his cue, Rumsfeld stood and crossed the few steps to Sam.

Sam grinned, dimples and all, as he held out his hand to the puppy.

Rumsfeld sniffed the small open palm before licking between Sam's fingers, wagging his tail as he did so.

Sam giggled, the sound hoarse and congested but 100% pure delight. "That tickles."

Rumsfeld continued to lick.

Sam continued to beam.

And Bobby continued to watch their interaction, feeling like his heart would burst from how happy he felt in this moment.

Several seconds passed.

"So, what d'ya think?" Bobby ventured when he couldn't wait any longer.

"He's perfect," Sam responded genuinely, smiling at Bobby. "And I like his bow."

Bobby chuckled. "Me, too."

"What's his name?"

"Rumsfeld."

"Rumsfeld," Sam repeated and then stared at the dog thoughtfully. "I think I'll call him Rummy."

Bobby chuckled once more. "Like we call you Sammy?"

Sam smiled. "Yes," he agreed and laughed softly, coughing as he did so.

Bobby frowned. "Easy there, kiddo," he soothed.

Sam nodded and cleared his throat; one hand resting on Rumsfeld head while the back of his other hand rubbed at his tired eyes.

Bobby quirked a smile at the adorable floppy-haired kid. "C'mere, squirt..." he called and patted his lap.

It was the only invitation Sam needed as the four-year old scrambled up into the leather chair and settled against Bobby; wiggling until his small body was securely tucked against the old hunter.

Not to be left behind, Rumsfeld nudged Bobby's leg; blinking up expectantly when the bearded man glanced down at him.

Bobby rolled his eyes but scooped the puppy up in a football hold and placed him on the opposite side of his lap.

Sam smiled, resting his head against Bobby's chest and reaching to rub Rumsfeld's soft fur.

The puppy sighed contentedly.

Bobby did the same.

There was silence.

"The tree's pretty," Sam whispered sleepily, staring across the room.

Bobby smiled, glad that at least one Winchester appreciated his efforts to make his house feel like Christmas. "Thanks."

There was more silence.

Upstairs, the bathroom door opened.

Bobby glanced at the ceiling as Dean padded down the hall and then abruptly stopped in the doorway of the boys' room.

Bobby could picture Dean's brief panicked expression as he processed the empty bed seconds before turning and crossing to John's room across the hall on the unlikely chance that Sam had gone to their dad while Dean had taken care of business.

But nope...no Sam.

Seconds later, footsteps were coming down the stairs.

"Guess who..." Bobby warned good-naturedly, glancing down at the fever-warm bundle sitting snugly in his lap.

"D'n..." Sam hummed drowsily in response; his hand no longer rubbing Rumsfeld but simply resting on the puppy's head.

"Mmhmm," Bobby agreed. "I think the jig is up."

"Sam..." Dean called as he reached the bottom of the stairs, his tone both annoyed and worried. "Sammy..."

"He's in here," Bobby replied and smiled when Dean instantly appeared in the doorway.

Dean's scowl softened slightly at the sight of his little brother safely sitting in Bobby's lap with that dumb puppy.

Sam blinked, unfazed by Dean's obvious irritation.

"You know better than to come downstairs without telling me," Dean bitched as he crossed to the leather chair in the corner of the living room.

Sam shrugged. "I wanted to see Bobby."

Bobby's heart swelled with that admission from the sweet child in his lap.

"And look..." Sam continued hoarsely, pointing at Rumsfeld. "We've got a puppy!"

"Yeah, I know," Dean replied, clearly not as enthused since he was focused on more important things. "But you're sick, Sam, and you need to be in bed."

Sam shrugged again. "I was thirsty."

Bobby arched an eyebrow, this being the first time he had heard that compliant from Sam since the kid had come downstairs.

"Then you tell me, and I get you something to drink," Dean reminded.

"I'm hungry, too," Sam admitted. "There's no food upstairs."

Bobby chuckled at the four-year old's logic. "Kid's got a point."

Dean glared.

Bobby chuckled again, glancing at Sam. "I made some soup."

Sam glanced up at him. "Chicken and rice?"

"Is there any other kind?" Bobby asked incredulously.

Sam sniffled and smiled. "That's my favorite."

"I know," Bobby agreed and winked at the four-year old.

Sam winked back – actually blinking both eyes in his attempt – and then redirected his attention to Dean. "Can I have some?"

Dean sighed. "It's late, Sam."

"So?" Sam countered. "I'm hungry."

"It won't hurt him, Dean," Bobby assured.

"I know that," Dean replied irritably and then sighed again. "Alright," he relented. "But not too much."

Sam smiled. "Thanks, Dean."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean responded and reached for his brother, easing the four-year old off Bobby's lap.

"Where's Daddy?" Sam asked, blinking up at Dean.

"Asleep upstairs," Dean answered. "So be quiet and don't wake him."

Sam nodded obediently at the familiar order.

Dean returned the nod and briefly palmed Sam's forehead to check his fever. "'Bout the same," he reported and then glanced at Bobby as the old hunter stood with Rumsfeld.

"More Tylenol?" Bobby questioned.

Dean shook his head. "It's not time yet," he informed, having Sam's dosing schedule memorized.

Bobby nodded, not surprised. "Okay, then. Soup for one...or two?" he asked, meaningfully staring at Dean.

Because while he knew Dean had already eaten dinner, Bobby also knew the eight-year old was always hungry and whatever fast food crap John had fed him was probably long gone by now.

Dean shrugged. "I'll take some," he allowed, his tone overly casual. "Sam doesn't like to eat alone."

"Uh-huh," Bobby replied and rolled his eyes, not fooled for a second.

Dean's mouth twitched in a smile.

Bobby set Rumsfeld on the floor.

"Good boy," Sam praised hoarsely as the dog immediately crossed to him.

Rumsfeld wagged his tail.

Sam glanced at his brother. "Do you like him, Dean?"

"Depends..." Dean answered vaguely, watching his brother interact with the puppy. "Do _you_ like him?"

Because that was all that ever mattered to Dean.

Sam nodded enthusiastically, his bangs fanning out across his forehead with the motion. "I _love_ him!" the four-year old proclaimed. "He's the best _ever_!"

Dean scowled. "Hey. I thought _I_ was the best ever..." he countered, mock offense in his tone.

"Oh, Dean..." Sam giggled and coughed lightly. "You are," he assured. "You're the best _brother_ ever...and Rummy's the best _dog _ever."

"And who's the best _uncle_ ever?" Bobby chimed in, watching his boys banter.

Both Dean and Sam glanced up at the older hunter.

"You," they told him in unison.

Bobby nodded. "Damn right I am," he agreed heartily, surprised he could speak around the knot of emotion lodged in his throat.

Dean smiled; Sam beamed; and Rumsfeld wagged his tail.

"Alright..." Bobby sighed, collecting himself before he cried like a girl over how happy these kids – and this dog – made him. "Who wants soup?"

"Me!" Sam answered and then coughed once more.

Dean frowned. "Easy, Sammy," he soothed, rubbing the kid's back as Sam coughed again.

"M'okay," Sam assured his brother and then grabbed Dean's hand. "C'mon..."

Dean rolled his eyes but allowed Sam to pull him down the hall.

Bobby led the way, headed to the kitchen; the sound of kids and a puppy following behind.

"There's nothing more precious..." Karen would say if she were there. "...nothing more precious than _right now_."

And Bobby had to agree.

There was nothing more precious than living in the moment; than soaking up the here and now and treasuring it for what it was.

Because who knew what tomorrow would bring?

Especially in a hunter's life.

But for now, they had each other.

And that was more precious than anything else.

Bobby nodded at the sappy, sentimental thoughts; listening to the soft chatter of a four-year old behind him as Sam confided something to Dean; listening to Dean's answering hum of acknowledgement; listening to Rumsfeld trip over his own fat feet as the puppy trotted to keep up with the boys.

Bobby smiled, feeling a rush of pure happiness flood his heart. "Merry Christmas, boys," he told the brothers as they entered the kitchen behind him.

Sam and Dean smiled at the exact same time; both standing there in the doorway hand-in-hand as Rumsfeld pushed between their legs.

"Merry Christmas, Bobby," they returned, once again speaking in unison like they often did.

Bobby's smile lingered as he motioned for them to sit at the table; moving the pot of soup back to the front of the stove to warm it up as Dean fussed over Sam and Rumsfeld collapsed in a sloppy heap on the floor.

Unseen in the living room, an old ornament swayed.

* * *

_**FIN**_


End file.
